


Strawberry juice

by Ethereal_Soul



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: How Do I Tag, Inspired by a Mitski Song, M/M, POV Frodo Baggins, Pining, Pre-Quest, Sindarin, excerpts of, no kissing, strawberry blond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:27:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29140743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethereal_Soul/pseuds/Ethereal_Soul
Summary: Frodo writes poetry about Sam lying on his garden, tries to translate it and is embarrassed when Sam almost finds out. Inspired by “strawberry blond” by Mitski + some frustration with foreign languages as Frodo struggles with elvish.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	Strawberry juice

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [In All the Ways There Were](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25095466) by [mollyknox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollyknox/pseuds/mollyknox). 



> Check out the wonderful playlist mollyknox did for her story! This work is inspired by that playlist.

Back in the days when Frodo had Bag End all to himself and no adventures on sight, he used to rise hours after the sun. Often, he was up to have elevensies. But thrice a week he’d be up for second breakfast or earlier, for those were the days when Sam came to take care of the garden. He didn’t like to pretend to be asleep, he knew Sam was overly cautious and would barely do anything that made any noise, afraid to wake him. Most hobbits were loud creatures when they didn’t plan to be quiet, but Sam was never noisy.

That was one of those mornings. Frodo was on his study, quill in hand. His desk? A mess, but an organized one. He had his sindarin books and should be working on them, even a little so he could at least understand some passages from the Red Book Bilbo had left him. He was, however, rather distracted. He’d opened the window so the light would help him get into the mood for studying, but it was such a fine day that he could not keep his eyes on the page. There, in the garden, he saw Sam. He didn’t mean to pry or anything, he simply thought looking at the flowers and the greens would be of some use. 

Sam was kneading in front of a bush of sorts, and then putting something in a basket. It was strawberries. Sam seemed to be trimming it and collecting the ripe ones. Frodo watched as he put a basket aside and wiped his hand over his forehead. Frodo mimicked the gesture, touching his own face. But Sam was glimmering. A sweat drop stood out when he looked at the sun and squished his eyes before looking away. As the breeze blew, Sam closed his eyes and sat on the grass, his hands parallel on the ground at his back, supporting him as he leaned his back, face up. The light made Sam’s hair look different. Frodo noticed the reddish reflex, something that must have always been there but he was too distracted to notice. It was a very pleasant composition, it made Frodo want to grab his old watercolours. The green from the grass and the bushes were a perfect contrast with the ripe strawberries that, in its turn, blend well with the light blush on Sam’s cheeks and the reflexes on his hair. And all the yellow. Hobbits loved yellow but Frodo realised his favourite shade was the golden he saw in Sam every morning and stood up against the greens.

Frodo pulled up a blank page on top of his books. He dipped his quill in ink and wrote:

_ Strawberry blond _

Sam seemed to relax. He lay down on the grass, head resting on his own arms, watching the white little butterflies swarming close to the garden. He then closed his eyes and Frodo wished he could stay like that for hours, wished he could make the earth stop moving so he could capture that light and that scene on a sketch. But his hand went for words and not the smooth traces of a drawing. He needed to capture that feeling. Yet he could not. He just stood there until Sam rose from the grass and walked away, barefoot, and left a shape of his body printed there. Frodo looked at it and he ached. He wished Sam’s outline was left on the sheets of his bed and not on the grass of his garden.

__

_ When you stood up// Walked away, barefoot // And the grass where you lay// Left a bed in your shape// I looked over it// And I ached _

He attempted to put down the words. It was silly. Writing verses. He was no poet, he was no lass to swoon at the sight of a lover. And Sam was not a lover. So he turned to his sindarin lessons. 

Sindarin could be of use someday. Sam was fond of elves, he often said so. If they ever had the chance, how could he talk to one? Well, elves are versed in many tongues, he supposed, but it must feel different in sindarin, it should be better. But he could not stop thinking about the minutes before, so he wrote

_ parth _ , 

or would it be  _ path _ ? It certanly was not  _ parf _ , that was the word for book and he was certain of it. Maybe  _ pathw _ . It was dreadfull, he didn’t even know how to speak of his own garden.  _ Sant  _ would do for garden, it was his garden anyway, a private ownership. But when he saw Sam on the grass it transported him to the beautiful tales Bilbo used to tell about the elves’ land and he wanted to write about green fields and open spaces. He thought  _ parth  _ would do well to convey a sward but also a field and maybe  _ pathw  _ because his garden was a level space. His front garden had no trees either, so  _ path  _ could mean that or was it often used to mean smooth skin? It was fenced, albeit not a fenced  _ field  _ per se, so  _ peil  _ shouldn’t be the right word. It had grass, but it was not a wide grassland for him to say  _ nan _ . Frodo scrambled all words that came to his mind, out of order. Be darned! He could not think of the proper way to say things.

_ Sant laeg _

_ tir _

_ tail tellen _

_ HELL lank _

_ cant TIR born _

_ Naeg _

Frodo was startled when he heard his name coming from the door. He jumped on the chair when he realised it was Sam. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Frodo”, he said. Frodo shook his head to dismiss his concern and Sam walked in. He placed a glass of juice on the desk and said something about the seasons and the time and the sweet taste. Frodo was barely registering the meaning when he remembered his rushed verses were there for Sam to see if he tried:

_ Strawberry blond//  _ _ When you stood up// Walked away, barefoot // And the grass where you lay// Left a bed in your shape// I looked over it// And I ached _

And even worse, his scribbles of potentially inadequate sindarin words.

_ Sant (garden) laeg (fresh and green) _

_ tir (to gaze, look at) _

_ tail (feet) tellen (sole of foot) _

_ HELL (naked) lank (naked) _

_ cant (outline, shape) TIR (to gaze, look at) born (red, hot) _

_ Naeg (pain) _

He covered the words in the common tongue but left the sindarin, Sam wouldn’t guess the meaning. Frodo himself was not sure of its meanings anyway. “What are you writing about, sir?” asked Sam. And Frodo did look at him properly now. “A garden…” 

Sam looked outside and spoke of how much he loved it. The colours and the smell and the sky and some things more. Frodo gave him a grin. More verses popping up, he stared mesmerized of how Sam’s hair changed when he was inside.

_ Look at you, strawberry blond _

Instead of his garden he now pictured how Sam would look if they were in the evish lands.

_ Fields rolling on _

But he had to keep his eyes on SAm, don’t let his mind wander. “Mr. Frodo,” said Sam, “are you alright?” he nudged Frodo’s shoulders. “You seem rather distracted today,” he said as Frodo looked at his hand and then his face, but had his mind elsewhere.

_ I love it when you call my name _

_ Can you hear the bumblebees swarm? _

_ Watching your arm _

_ I love it when you look my way _

_ Look at you, strawberry blond _

“Oh, sorry Sam, I didn’t hear you before, I was thinking of the words”, and he looked at the paper, the few words showing up.

_ lank (naked) _

_ cant (outline, shape) TIR (to gaze, look at) born (red, hot) _

_ Naeg (pain) _

“What do they all mean?” asked Sam, curious. Frodo gave him the first literal translation he could think of and he saw Sam blush.  _ Born  _ would not even describe it because Sam was not only flushed he was paralyzed. That’s when Frodo realised he must have misunderstood everything. He could not have Sam think he was having any improper thoughts.

“Not like that, Sam!”, he rushed to amend. “I meant to say bare, like no shoes on, and the shape of the grass…”

“Like footprints left on grass, sir? Don’t they have a word for that? You mean looking at the garden then, red berries?” Frodo was so confused he just nodded. “What’s to pain then, sir?”

“My heart…” Frodo replied feebly as he hid the papers under a book and looked down. “Sir?” Sam asked, concerned. All sort of rambling came out of Frodo to which Sam did not respond. He didn’t expect to be at such a loss for words, or maybe he should have, considering his shameful poetry. “Anything I can do to help?”

Oh there was so much he could do to help. But nothing that could be spoken of, nothing he’d dare ask, so he said “Fetch me my old watercolour set, Sam? I can’t seem to find it anywhere.” Sam left, but not before he reminded Frodo of the glass on his desk that’d turn lukewarm if he didn’t drink it soon.

When Sam was gone, Frodo buried his face on his hands and cringed as never before while he replayed every word he had said to Sam. Hopefully Sam had ignored all of it and thought Frodo was just tired or frustrated at his sindarin, that would not be something new. Yes, maybe Sam just thought Frodo was very bad at choosing words to describe his own garden. He knew Frodo liked to have his window opened every morning, that meant nothing, Sam could not have noticed him staring. Even if he saw, the garden was beautiful, wasn’t it? Sam had said so himself, even if when his lips formed the words all Frodo could think about was Sam lying there, surrounded by greens and butterflies. And the berries, strawberries actually, so ripe and sweet.

He saw the glass over his desk. It was red. Strawberry juice then. It was fresh, and it made Frodo think of the moment Sam was putting the berries in the basket. It tasted as sweet as it always had, but now it would be forever linked to the images of this morning, of Sam quiet and content, the breeze refreshing his skin, the sun kissing his hair…

Frodo did need to stop this. He’d never master any of sindarin if he kept daydreaming at every word. He could not have this. Yet, when he felt the drink cold in his throat he pictured Sam on a field, bumblebees not too far, the grass as green as the first leafs of spring, Sam looking at him, calling him his  _ meleth _ ... _ meleth-nîn _ …

_ All I need, darling _

_ Is a life in your shape _

_ I picture it, soft _

_ And I ache _

He wrote it down. If he couldn’t keep his yearning at bay, he could at least try to yearn in a different tongue and learn something new. So he proceeded to yearn all day, just like a usual daydream except in sindarin. Was it silly? Yes, without a doubt, but why bother, when he only had himself to witness his silliness...

**Author's Note:**

> meleth-nîn: my love
> 
> I’m clueless about sindarin, even if I want to learn. For this story I checked this dictionary:  
> https://www.jrrvf.com/hisweloke/sindar/online/english.html
> 
> .
> 
> I like to make friends. Tumblr is on profile :)


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